


Brother knows best?

by ConsultingHound



Series: Icarus, Fallen [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biscuits may be involved, But don't tell him that, Can you tell I'm not sure about this?, Conversation between brothers, John is a sweetie, Mrs Hudson steps in, So's Sherlock, Wingfic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's keeping a secret from John and Mycroft thinks he's an idiot.</p><p>*Edited Version*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while it was still snowing hence the setting but have only just got round to checking it over. No beta so if there are any mistakes just let me know! I could turn this into multi-chapter if anyone wants some more and comments are always appreciated :)

The snow had definitely fallen that night. A couple of inches blanketed the ground and so the hill that led to the park was littered with tracks, marring the perfection of the snow. Shouts of the children sledging could be heard from a little huddle of trees. This was where he was stood. The man was either insane or oblivious to the cold as he stood in tight fitting trousers and jacket, purple shirt visible underneath. Leaning against a tree, his features were hidden in the shadows.

  
"You're late Mycroft" he announced to thin air.

  
"Merely dealing with situations that are above your head dearest brother." Mycroft walked out the trees and stared at his brother.

  
"You mean the boring diplomacy that could easily be dealt with by someone else but which you can’t let go of."

  
Mycroft barely restrained a sigh. "I suspected you wouldn't understand. You rarely do when it comes to human matters." He seemed to say the last sentence more to himself than the man who was pointedly not looking at him.

"How's John?" Mycroft asked after a pause. To a passerby it appeared as a polite inquiry. To Sherlock, it was an insult.

  
"How's your diet?" He spat back, finally turning to his brother. Mycroft merely arched an eyebrow. "I do hope this doesn’t mean trouble in paradise?”

  
"No. Even if there was it’s none of your business Mycroft so why don’t you ask me what you brought me here to ask so I can refuse and go home again," his brother answered petulantly.

"I see you're still childish as ever. You still haven't told him have you?" Sherlock detected a taunting undertone and scowled. Being taught about emotions by Mycroft was like Anderson being appointed new head of MI6. Preposterously ridiculous and a waste of time.

  
"At present he is still unaware of our...condition."

  
"Sherlock you really should-“

  
"Don't dictate to me what I should and shouldn't do." The men stared at each other for a moment before Mycroft spoke in a slightly softer tone, changing tact. "I only felt that it would be wise to inform John before he became entangled."

  
"What? So he can run away? Is that what you want?" The words were meant to be filled with venom, but had a tinge of fear. Sherlock swore he could feel his blood pressure rising. Stupid emotions, always in the way of a convincing argument. "There is little evidence that John will leave. He has been through this much and I am certain you could provide an amiable explanation to the good doctor."

  
"I don't need to explain this to anyone Mycroft. Not if I don’t want or wish to."

“And what would it take to make you want to?”

  
“Annoying you is always an inciting incentive.”

  
White wings, purer than the snow still flurrying down, with a slashes of black unfurled into the air. "Sherlock! We are in a public place. Will you please behave yourself," Mycroft demanded.

  
"Problem?" Despite this he carefully closed his wings and they seemed to melt back into his jacket.

"Please try and act your age Sherlock. We are no longer children playing pirates in the garden. I am just pointing out it will be easier to tell him now rather than explaining later, when he will likely feel a sense of betrayal." Sherlock, unwilling to concede the point, glared and said "You never used to play. Apparently training for government is a full time endeavour.

  
"I remember very clearly that I did participate in your imaginary performances. I still have the bruises from when you attacked me with that sword, claiming I was the sea kraken and had to be slain for my own good.”

  
“And I still stand by that decision. It’s not my fault you didn't heed my warning about the shin guards. Also, last time I checked, you had never explained this to anyone so forgive me for not treating your word as gospel."

  
I have not at this present moment had the opportunity or need to do so. However if that problem should arise I would hope to deal with it better than you."

  
"I am dealing with this just fine Mycroft."

  
"Oh I can see that" They glared at each other for another moment. Sherlock shifted his gaze first and Mycroft took it as a victory. "I was hoping for a quick solution to this but unfortunately it seems that you feel John is not up to the task of knowing about our kind and I may be inclined to agree, with you acting like a 5 year old."

  
"You underestimate him." Sherlock answered quickly. No one was allowed to criticise his doctor. His Doctor. The possessiveness was new. He focused on wrestling it into the box were his other excess emotions presided, mostly, though he would never admit it, ones to do with John. The physical reaction was bad enough; raised heart rate, shortness of breath, perceived tightening of stomach (a phenomenon known as ‘butterflies’ apparently). But it was the emotions that were the real problem. Deplorable things, scattering his brain, making him want to forget about the case, the Work, no less. Forget and turn to John, in one of those idiotic jumpers; turn and lean down and- no, no time for that. Not with a smug sanctimonious lump of a brother in front of him.

  
"That's exactly what I'm gambling on."

  
Sherlock watched as he tipped his umbrella and, after making a menial excuse, walked away back into the trees.  
I am not going to be goaded into making a rash decision, he chanted to himself. What would be the point? It would only antagonise his and John’s friendship and complicate the living situation entirely.  
I am not going to be goaded.  
I am not.  
No.  
No.

 

Bollocks.  
He stormed down the path, onto the main street, jumped into a taxi and proceeded to sulk all the way to 221B.  
He did not want this conversation, he would not enjoy this conversation and he was fairly certain he was going to get punched during this conversation. Later he would use this as a reason to why he paused outside the door, hand hovering slightly away from the wooden frame. He wasn't scared, he reasoned. Holmes’ were never scared.


	2. Mrs Hudson intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson is on the case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first, THANK YOU for all the lovely comments on this fic. I'm really happy people actually like this. Secondly, this was supposed to be John and Sherlock but Mrs Hudson decided she wanted a say and so I had to let her in. Sherlock and John next chapter though! Hope you enjoy :)

Holmes’ were never scared. 

Well, at least on the outside.  The crafted masks of cool indifference fended off emotion to the extent that even the brothers themselves began to believe they were invincible.  On the _inside_ however, things were not so calm.  Sherlock managed to get to the bottom of the stairs before he halted.  It wasn’t a conscious choice; rather his transport once again refusing to operate, a defence mechanism against his brain imploding from the thoughts flickering through his head like spotlights.  

Stop.  Organise.  Control. 

He thought about how it was stupid to let his brother goad him into a rash decision, the sort of decision that could jeopardise the one person he genuinely couldn’t live without ( _not that John knew that at the present moment_ ), how he didn’t need to tell him, not really, but what if he told him and he left and didn’t come back, oh god, oh god, oh g-

“You’re an idiot.”

The simple statement seemed to still Sherlock’s brain, veering it away from its own destruction.  This didn’t prevent it from being irritating to have his cognitive abilities interrupted and criticised, no less.  A scathing retort should suffice to get rid of the person and restart his brain. 

“No I’m not.”

Or not.  Sherlock swung round to look at Mrs Hudson, leaning against her doorway with that hideously _fond_ look.  It was if she thought him _adorable_.  Absurd. 

“Are you sure dear?  Only you’ve been stood by that step for ten minutes.  ”

“I was thinking.” 

“Clearly,” she replied.

“ _I was_ ,” was the indignant response. 

“Tea?”  A pause.  Not entirely unexpected but it was unfeasible to continue this conversation.  He needed to plan the exact words he would say to John.  It was rather like an experiment. 

“I have those shortbreads, the one’s you think I don’t know you like.”

Perhaps a detour would be necessary after all. 

This was how Sherlock, instead of facing up to John with his usual confidence and flippancy about matters that were socially deemed ‘important’ or ‘necessary’, ended up curled on a chair staring at a _very_ stubborn Mrs Hudson.  Like John, people often underestimated her ( _probably because of her diminutive height, such strange associations people make, like height actually matters_ ) but Sherlock knew better.  “So dear ( _why does she_ insist _on calling me dear_?).  Tell me what’s wrong.”  It wasn’t a question, not a request but a command.  Sherlock avoided eye contact, as if that would help and nibbled at a piece of shortbread.  They sat like that for a while until, after a dramatic sigh and the realisation Mrs Hudson would wait for as long as it took, Sherlock muttered “Apparently my dearest brother believes it prudent for me to divulge certain information to John regarding myself with a view to continue our association and perhaps advance it from our current status which I think is unnecessary and detrimental to the progress I want to make.” 

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that?”  Mrs Hudson feigned innocence.  At least he had the reassurance that he had indeed, learnt from the best. 

“IHaveToTellJohnAboutTheWings.” 

“So sorry.  One more time?”

“I. Have. To. Tell. John. About. The. Wings.”

Sherlock stared moodily into his tea while Mrs Hudson conveniently hid her smile behind her tea.  She was the sole human to know about the wings and then only by accident.  Apparently getting high did not keep total control of his mystical properties and, as one of the few people who ever bothered to check he was still breathing, she walked in to his dank one room flat to see him sprawled on the floor, passed out with wings bent awkwardly when they hit the walls.  Rather than freaking out, as most people would and were probably entitled too, she merely woke him up gently and managed to get him to the mostly redundant bed before phoning Mycroft.  This was perhaps the reason why Mycroft was wary of her, the collected calm worrying the concerned older brother.  Sherlock _adored_ her for worrying Mycroft, though no one would ever know.  “How were you going to approach that?” 

Sherlock looked up at her.  “You agree with Mycroft?”

“Well of course, he deserves to know bless him.  He’s been around long enough and you two seem very settled up there.”  Sherlock had never corrected her assumption that they were a couple, mainly because he knew that she knew full well they weren’t together, secondly because she wouldn’t have stopped anyway, displayed by her selective hearing around anyway arguing otherwise (John for example) and thirdly and he would never admit to this, he secretly _liked_ the idea. 

“But it’s _Mycroft_.”

“Look, at some point you are going to have to admit that sometimes your brother is correct.  Now stop avoiding the question.  How are you going to tell him?”  Sherlock returned to staring at his now cold tea.  “I was hoping you might have some suggestions on that matter.” 

“Sorry?”

“You heard me.”  Sherlock really did abhor repeating himself and as seen as he’d already been forced into it once before in this conversation, he didn’t feel obliged to do so again. 

 _Was it so difficult to listen the first time or were others brains so incapable that they couldn’t even do that properly.  It must be so quiet, so peaceful.  Hateful._  

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.  Sherlock Holmes, asking for advice.”

“When you’ve finished your gloating, I do have a rather pressing experiment and unless you would like acid dripping through the ceiling, would like to get this over with a quickly as possible.”

“Sorry dear, it’s just a surprise.”  She stopped, looking thoughtful, her fingers tapping the side of her empty cup.  This was the reason Sherlock loved her most, the fact that he couldn’t deduce her fully, never having a full grasp on the expressive face in front of him.  John was even more of a challenge and didn’t Sherlock just adore him for it. 

“Have you just thought about showing him?  It may be slightly too simple for _your_ tastes but, as they say, honesty is the best policy.  _(Sherlock had never understood who these ‘they’ were or how they factored into a conversation)_   Emotions were never your strong suit dear, if you don’t mind me saying, and any other way may complicate matters.”  Sherlock looked at her.  That seemed awfully simple.  Almost _too_ simple.  Surely it couldn’t be as simple as all that, otherwise no one would have problems.  “Worked with me,” she pointed out.  Instead of pointing out that he hadn’t exactly _shown_ her, more she had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Sherlock felt his transport nod. 

“Excellent.  Well, of you go then,” she said, gesturing to the door.  Sherlock’s transport refused to move. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.  Look,” Mrs Hudson demanded, taking away his tea and, more importantly the shortbread (half the plateful had magically disappeared) and shepherded him out the door and onto the bottom step. 

“Right.  Up the stairs.”  She stood, arms crossed, barricading him on the stairs so his only option was either pushing her out the way ( _unacceptable_ ) or going upstairs.  It didn’t technically mean he _had_ to say anything.  It was only a suggestion from his landlady.  Also his brother.  But what did they know?

Mrs Hudson had lifted an eyebrow.  He appeared to be frozen on the stairs.  Again.  “Unless it’s too difficult for you dear.”  He lifted his chin haughtily and turned, sweeping up the stairs. 

Too difficult indeed.  


	3. The Big Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, THANK YOU for all the lovely comments and kudos! It was such an amazing surprise and I'm so grateful for everyone whose read this fic. Secondly this chapter was difficult to get right so I hope it's not to OOC. Thirdly: John appears!

John Watson was not an easy man to scare. He'd been in the army, he’d chased criminals around London, he’d shot and killed. So to receive a text half way round Tesco's from Sherlock demanding his return to the flat wasn't even worth a second glance on a normal day. This text however was a least a 'cause for concern' if not a full 'worrying' situation on the John Watson Panic Scale.

**John** , **if** **at** **all** **possible** , **return** **to** **the** **flat** **immediately**. **If** **not** **come** **as** **soon** **as** **you** **are** **able** - **SH**

'If at all possible'? 'As soon as you are able'? What had gotten into him? Was he ill? Sherlock was normally most amenable when he wanted something. But what?

He decided to just buy what he'd got and pick up the rest later. A borderline worrying text from Sherlock usually meant case and a case usually meant that he wouldn't be at the flat to actually eat anything for a few days.  Maybe even weeks.    
***  
John Watson was not an easy man to scare. So when he arrived at 221 Baker Street to total silence, he took it as a mind palace silence and so did what he always did when faced with total lock down. He marched up the stairs, dumped the shopping on the kitchen table and turned to the living room to check A) If his flat mate was still in said flat and B) if he was still awake (though it was difficult to tell). What he _didn't_ expect was to be confronted by a mound of blankets on the sofa. "Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly. Maybe Sherlock had gone out.

"Yes John?" The blankets replied.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John struggled restraining his giggles but the sight of the voice of the world’s only consulting detective coming from what looked like a small child's hiding place was putting a strain on even his self control.

"What does it look like John?" The tone of long suffering was quick to appear (John had made a habit of timing how long it took, record time: 6 minutes).

"Well it looks like a laundry cupboard fell on you and you couldn't be bothered to remove it."

"Of course not John. We don't have a laundry cupboard."

"I know we don't have a laundry cupboard, it was meant to be a- You know what? Never mind. I give up. What's with the blankets?" An ominous silence emitted from the blankets. "Sherlock?"

"It's particularly cold today."  
John blinked and remained still. Sherlock Holmes was complaining about the weather. The same Sherlock Holmes who went out to the morgue in pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown yesterday. John's concern went up a notch, veering closer to 'worried'.

"Excellent deduction. So you thought you'd wear every blanket in the flat to stop being cold when you could just turn the heating up a bit?"

"To resolve this secondary problem, yes. Also I thought you were concerned with Global Warming? I am merely doing my part to assuage your worries John."  
John ignored the last comment but a word earlier caught his attention. "Secondary problem? What's the primary problem?" The silence returned. John remained silent, waiting.

"I have a secret." The voice was small and quiet, muffled by the fabric in between them. It most certainly wasn't not a Sherlock voice.

“And you thought hiding would help?”

“I am not hiding John.” Ah, there was the Sherlock he knew and lo-. Nope. There it was again, that slight fuzzy feeling in his gut. No. Concentrate. Deal with Sherlock first, emotions second. John had been dealing with this feeling for about 2 weeks now but it wasn’t getting any easier. It hadn’t been very problematic apart from his difficulty to concentrate on crime scenes, not that he knew what was going on half the time anyway.

So back to Sherlock.  
 “So what’s this then?”

“It is a mere precaution John. I wouldn’t want anyone just walking in. They would demand an explanation.”  
“You could close the bloody door sometimes then,” John muttered.

“What?”  
“Nothing.”  
“I only leave the door open because you are normally following. I have been informed it is not socially acceptable to close doors on people who wish to walk through.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Yes John?” John sighed. If Sherlock was going to be so delightfully unhelpful, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. If Sherlock was going to act like a child, he’d be treated like a child. Firstly by removing the frankly ridiculous blankets.  He hadn't even known they'd owned this many, never mind how Sherlock had found them all. He moved from in front of his chair to in front of the sofa and the blanket monster perched on top of it.

  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  
“Why?” John had already got a hold on one of the top blankets. If he pulled, even slightly, everything else would go falling to the floor.  
“John.”  
“Tell me why Sherlock. Just one little reason.”  
There was silence from the blankets.  
John shifted his hands, drawing the green blanket from the pile like a magician revealing a magic trick. Peripherally he notice, there was Sherlock, sat facing him, eyes open and focused on him. He was dressed in that purple shirt, the one that framed his body beautifully and the usual slim black trousers, feet bare. But this was only his side vision.

The thing that was most noticeable was the fact that Sherlock, his wondrous detective, had wings.


	4. Childhood Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit late in being put up, everyone has apparently decided it was essay time and so have been a little bit busy.  
> In this chapter it's a lot of flashbacks from Sherlock's childhood and an explanation of the wings!  
> Only one more chapter after this which I might have up a bit earlier as we have Monday off :)
> 
> Thank you for the support, its made writing this all worthwhile.

Sherlock had stopped breathing.  He knew what his wings looked like; glistening white with black slashes; tainted perfection.  He paused, frozen in place as his mind raced to catalogue all the emotions running across John's face.  Confusion and surprise dominated with flashes of amazement and amusement.  Was the anger and disgust hidden beneath the surface?  Normal, hideously average people rarely bothered to mask their emotions but John had been quick to learn it was the only way to have any sembelance of privacy.  It was likely that John wouldn’t tell him if he was repulsed by his freakish anomaly, he would just look and then leave, making an excuse as he went.  John would never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings, but would kill for someone he was loyal to, even if they rarely knew each other.  A wonderful puzzle, a captivating labyrinth and soon to be _gone_.  A terrifying thought flashed into Sherlock’s mind: What if he reacted like Mummy did?  
***  
Sherlock aged 5:  
  
It was, as ever, all Mycroft's fault.

Sherlock had clearly stated that under no circumstances was Mycroft to touch any of his experiments while he was out but it was apparently too difficult for the idiot to follow even the simplest of instructions.  Of course it had to be the most important one he removed and disposed of for 'reasons of sanitary health'.  What did he know?  That could have been one of the most scientifically important mould growths of the century but, alas, they would never know now.  Upon finding his experiments or lack thereof, Sherlock stormed into the library, a beautiful room with 1 side covered in glass, the other three with leather bound books, a place to reflect and study and exactly the place where he was sure to find the guilty heathen.  
  
"MYCROFT."  
  
"Ah Sherlock, to what do I owe the pleasure?"  Mycroft was reclined in one of the chairs, its leather matching that of the books, facing the glass window and had a book open on his lap.  Probably something awful and dreary, just like his brother, Sherlock thought viciously, as he stomped round to face the accused.   
  
"Mycroft, did you touch my experiment?"  
  
"And what experiments was this? The one in the pantry, the one in the drawing room or the biological hazard you keep in the shed?"  
  
"Stop being so idiotic Mycroft. The frog spawn one, where is it?"  
  
"Ah, the one I found in my sock draw, I remember now.  Well my dearest brother, it has been disposed of and may it teach you to leave my things alone."  
  
Sherlock remained silent, glaring at his older brother, rage coursing through him. Mycroft was _always_ doing this, whether it be his experiments, or the books he could read, or bed time ( _what a stupid schedule to stick to, why couldn't people just sleep when they wanted to?_ ), controlling his life, like he had to be some father figure to make up for the absent one.  
  
"Sherlock.  Sherlock you need to calm down."  Mycroft's voice was calm, perfectly controlled and level.  This meant he was worried or angry or both.  Why was Mycroft worried?  Sherlock followed his brother’s gaze.  He noticed the shadow he was casting on the floor between them. He then looked to his left.  Then to the right.   
  
Interesting.  
  
"Mycroft."  
  
"Yes Sherlock."  
  
"Why do I have wings?"  
  
Mycroft paused, scanning Sherlock's face.  Probably trying to find shock or fear or some other childish emotion.  Idiot.  Didn’t he realise Sherlock was 5 now?   
  
"That is a rather long story my dear brother and one I am not inclined to go into at this present moment.  Now wait here.  I will return shortly and perhaps we can go and find you something else to experiment on."  With that Mycroft left the room, striding as well as a 14 year old could stride.  Sherlock stood for a moment, looking at the reflection on the floor, not daring to look at the reality.  He found himself sinking to the floor.  Odd.  
  
Maybe he was a little scared after all. 

***

Sherlock, aged 9:

Sherlock was sat in the same library.  His wings had been carefully folded away, his skill of manipulating them improving every day.  However, they did have a tendency to appear unbidden whenever he lost his temper completely, though Mycroft said that this was controllable, though his words were not always to be trusted. 

His latest outburst had been at being told they were visiting family over Christmas.  Sherlock _loathed_ his family.  They were all too nosy for their own good and treated him like a baby, Sherlock thought.  However when he told Mycroft this, he'd just muttered something about 'the irony' which had led to an argument about the definition of said word and got him no further in never having to see them again.  So, when Mummy informed him that he was to spend almost 2 whole weeks with them, he had had something akin to a strop.  

A completely _justified_ strop but a strop nonetheless.  

This tactic didn't quite work as well as hoped and so Sherlock had decided to try shouting and screaming instead, hence the wings.  
The only problem was Mummy hadn't exactly seen the wings yet.  (In fact, only Mycroft knew about them, much to both their annoyance.)   He was waiting until he could fully control them, to impress her. 

However, she had paled at the sight of them, argument forgotten and had told him to sit in the chair and not move.  Then she'd hurried out and Sherlock was sat, reading a book he'd plucked at random from a shelf.  It was a detective novel, his favourite, and the reason why he'd decided to become a detective when he was older.  Piracy had been pushed aside after a boat ride had left him feeling sick and refusing to leave his room for 2 hours.  He sat and he waited and he read and was just about to throw another massive sulk when Mycroft appeared.

“Mummy told me what happened.  She says I’m to take you to Grandfather’s for a few days.”

Sherlock pouted.  Grandfather’s smelt of old people and he refused to allow Sherlock in the garden or kitchen unsupervised after the ‘fire’ incident (not that that had stopped him but it was irritating to have to sneak about and keep noise to a minimum.  All the fun things in life required explosive properties). 

“ _Why_?” he whined.

“I do not know the reason.  Now go pack your things.  Be in the car in 10 minutes,” Mycroft instructed in his usual manner.  However he didn’t sweep out imperiously, like he always did, but stepped closer and cautiously, ruffled Sherlock’s hair.  Then he turned and left and Sherlock was left once again, more confused than ever.

***

Sherlock aged 14:

He was sat outside _that_ library, the one that had started this intolerable nonsense, the one where everything had turned to ruin.  Over the past 5 years Sherlock had spent hardly any time in the house at all, being shunted from relative to relative over the holidays.  His mother had barely spoken to him, perpetually embarrassed and angered by his company.  This holiday however, everyone had refused to have him back and so he was forced to return to the hateful home of his childhood.  He hated it here, the silence in the hallways, the greenery outside with its false perfection hiding the laborious work behind it, the _people_ or the lack of them.  What he wouldn’t give to be back in London, where his boarding school was, where he could sneak out and just _see_ , the people, the buildings, the energy of it all.  Here, it was like someone had switched off the generator and locked it away, the time slipping past like sludge. 

Mycroft and his mother were talking in the Library when he’d passed and caught a piece of their conversation.  He’d intended to ignore it but something made him pause and lean on the wall next to the oak door, listening. 

“I can’t believe he’s back.”

“Well this is his home, mother.”

“This isn’t _his_ home.  It is mine and I don’t want him here.”

“You are behaving like a spoiled child.”

“Don’t speak to me like that Mycroft, I’m your mother.  I believe I command more respect than that.  You are lucky that you weren’t thrown out too, although you _were_ always the quieter one.”

“Sherlock is disruptive because he is scared, though he’ll never admit it, has been since the age of 5.  He does not deserve the fate you have given him mother.  Perhaps if we were to explain then he would understand better about why-“  
“And you would freely tell him would you?”

“I feel you owe it to him-“  
“I owe him _nothing_.”  That one word was laced with a terrifying amount of venom, sounding nothing like his mother or anyone before.  It was a voice of suppressed anger and frustration bursting forth, only to be parcelled away again, never dealt with properly, only tolerated.  A psychological nightmare in a patterned dress.There was an expressive pause in the conversation before his mother sighed and started speaking again.

“Look, Mycroft, darling, it was so much easier with you because you understood from the beginning and learnt from it.  Sherlock doesn’t have the ability to.”

“How would you know?  You barely even know the boy.”

“I don’t have to know him to know he isn’t one of your lot.”

“I’m sorry?”  Mycroft sounded surprised.  His mother was the only one who could surprise him enough to give away the fact. 

“His wings, Mycroft.  Didn’t you get a look at them?”

“Well of course, but that doesn’t define him-“

“Oh, but it does.  Those aren’t the wings of a true angel descendant like you are they?  No yours are pure, unstained and whole.  Beautiful.  But his, _His_ have the marks on them.  You know what those marks mean don’t you?”  There was silence for a moment.  Sherlock had pressed himself up against the wall as far as his body would allow, although the words were clearly audible from a much comfier distance but his body wouldn’t move.  He had to know.  The explanation for Mycroft’s wings sounded absurd but what other option was there with something this illogical?  The reason for his dismissal from his old life was being kept from him and he _needed_ to know why, what he was, what had changed. 

“Say it,” his mother’s voice instructed. 

There was another hesitant pause. 

“Say it.”

“A fallen.”

Sherlock was transfixed.  ‘Fallen’?  As in a fallen angel?  It did make a strange sense; possessing a rebellious nature and becoming an outcast for it.  His mother continued wittering on, unaware of the shift in Sherlock’s universe as the information slotted into place. 

“A fallen.  No good ever came from them and you mark my words, no good will.  When He dealt them their punishment, He said they will remain there for eternity and all their kin marked with black wings forever more as a warning.  They were sent away for a reason My, can’t you see?  This is to protect us, darling, you’ll see.  To think we nearly had one in the family.  He’ll destroy himself one day and if we aren’t careful, he’ll drag us down with him.  Now we must stop this ridiculous conversation.  I must go talk to Aunt Evelyn about a most pressing matter and you know how she gets.”  Sherlock pried himself away from the door and forced himself to hide behind a set of curtains half way down the hall.  He heard the feet padding away, so not to disturb the quiet.  He heard the wind whistling outside.  He heard his heart thrumming in his chest.  He heard everything.  But it was filtered through, not immediately recognisable over the voice in his head screaming at him to _run,_ to run and never look back.  To run until he hit another town, another city, another country.  To run and run and to not come back to _this_ place. 

He slipped back into what was his room and grabbed some clothes, some books and all the money he had.  He briefly thought about telling Mycroft but the traitor clearly didn’t care enough to tell him his own background so why should _he_ be botherabout telling him anything.  They would find him sooner or later anyway.  Mycroft had a nasty habit of doing that.  He dismissed the idea of telling anyone and took a quick glance around his room and realised most of his stuff was in his room at school.  It hit him that this wasn’t his home anymore, hadn’t been since he was 9.  He belonged to London now.  The window slid open easily and it was only a short hop onto the balcony below, one of the guest rooms.  The room was only on the 1 st floor, his room ( _his old room_ ) being on the second so it wasn’t a huge leap onto the grass below. 

Then he was running, heading towards the road.

Then he was free.

***

“Sherlock?”  John’s voice.  His past memories were scattered, flooding back into the box from where they had been locked into long ago.  Sherlock had thought he had deleted the box and its contents long ago but clearly there had been a malfunction somewhere and they were swarming, swirling, branding, burning.  He opened his eyes, though he couldn’t remember closing them.  John was still stood there, of course he was, not a minute had passed in reality. 

Sherlock looked at John.  John looked back. Then Sherlock did something he knew from experience he was very good at.

He ran.   


	5. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, THANK YOU for all the kudos and comments. I'm usually one of the notorious lot who never finish anything so I'm really proud of this and I'm so happy that other people have liked it too.  
> Secondly, sorry for this chapter being slightly later than usual. Got exams coming up so have been a bit busy! This chapters a bit linger than the others though to make up for it :)  
> Thirdly, this chapter contains boys being silly, a lot of running about and John and Sherlock fluffiness.

John stood still for a moment.  It was like his brain had short-circuited and was still broadcasting that moment.  That moment that Sherlock, the world’s only consulting detective, his best friend, _his_ Sherlock had sat before him with those beautiful, almost glacial wings.  But that moment couldn’t last forever and John’s brain decided to power through the past 30 seconds that he had apparently missed. 

Sherlock deducing.  Sherlock seeing surprise.  Sherlock’s eyes falling shut, pale lids shutting away those stormy eyes.  Sherlock tensing up.  Sherlock almost flinching away from whatever he was seeing.  Sherlock’s eyes flying open.  Sherlock looking terrified.  Why did he look so scared?  Was it the memories he was running from or was it him?  But I didn’t do anything, John dismissed before thinking that maybe it was the memories because-.  John’s entire body seemed to snap upright, pulling himself into his conditioned military poise. 

He hadn’t done anything.

Of course Sherlock would misinterpret that as something bad instead of stunned.  Of course the so-called genius detective would have assumed the worse.  Of course the emotionally stunted man-child would have run rather than confront the problem. 

His mind filled in the final few seconds.  Sherlock looking but not _seeing_.  Sherlock running. 

 _Sherlock running_. 

John was hurtling down the stairs quicker than his brain could catch up with and it was only when he was half way out the door that he realised 3 things.  1. It was still freezing outside, the cold biting at his exposed skin.  2. His coat was upstairs, dumped with the shopping that had been forgotten and abandoned in the kitchen.  3.  He had _no idea_ where he was going.

It wasn’t like Sherlock didn’t run off on a regular basis.  In fact, John would have found it unnerving if he didn’t occasionally spring up like a dog catching a scent and hare out the living room without so much as a goodbye.  It was just normally Sherlock wasn’t _that_ difficult to find; just look for the nearest crime scene and you were half way there.  Even if Sherlock proved untraceable in the street, he always came back anyway, like a domesticated animal with a homing sense.  But there was something in Sherlock’s face, a look that had John on edge.  It was the look of someone who wanted to, _needed_ to run and those people rarely came back without coaxing.  Unfortunately, unlike some people ( _dull, ordinary people_ , Sherlock’s voice sounded affronted, even in John’s mind), John didn’t know of one definitive place that was _Sherlock’s_.  If he had had to name somewhere that Sherlock felt safe in, John would have said 221B without hesitation.

The space was so Sherlockian, with the skull and knife on the mantelpiece, the oxymoronic organised disorder of the papers scattered on the desk, the chemical warzone occupying the kitchen table.  John felt a pang of guilt in his stomach.  He had chased him away from his safe zone.  Unintentionally of course, never intentionally, but still by his unusual lack of action, he had pushed Sherlock out and, with his usual flair, Sherlock had disappeared like melting snow.

When he found Sherlock he was going to punch him for being such a bloody idiot.  Or possibly kiss him.  His brain hadn’t quite worked that one out yet. 

It was then that John realised he must look slightly weird just stood on the doorstep.  Right, a plan would be good.  Places where Sherlock was likely to be.  A few locations were obvious.  The Yard and Morgue seemed most reasonable, but he didn’t discount the possibility of somewhere more obscure like Angelo’s being a chosen hiding spot. 

“He went left, if that helps.”  John spun round to see Mrs Hudson leaning in her doorway with a concerned frown. 

“Err, yes, thank you.”  He paused before adding, “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea where he’s going, would you?”  He figured that Mrs Hudson had been around Sherlock to know of any places Sherlock thought were significant.  He pushed away the irrational hurt of Sherlock having anywhere important that he didn’t tell John about. 

“Not a clue.  Whoever does around that boy?”  John had to smirk at the exasperated, mother-like tone.  “But I wouldn’t worry dear; He always turns up, our Sherlock.  But if you do insist on running after him, you may want this.”  John was surprised when Mrs Hudson handed him a plastic box with what appeared to be biscuits in them.  Before he could ask, however, Mrs Hudson had already disappeared into her flat.  Clearly it was going to be one of _those_ days; one where everyone else understood what was going on but had somehow forgotten to tell John. 

To the right was the Morgue so Sherlock was unlikely to be headed there, unless he was intent on not being found.  The idea made John squirm a little; only the idea of forcing Sherlock to run was enough to make guilt seep through him. 

With that in mind, he turned left and started to run again.

***

It was a relatively quiet morning at Scotland Yard, at least for Lestrade.  Well, at least it _was_ , until a very agitated looking John Watson burst through the door, carrying what appeared to be a plastic box.  Lestrade’s first thought was that Sherlock was harassing the staff again.  It appeared to be his new favourite hobby but it did mean that 19 members of staff had burst into tears in the past month and it was starting to cause a significant problem.  However, before he had a chance to say anything, John asked “Where’s Sherlock?” 

Now perhaps he should have been more sympathetic but he couldn’t deny, his first thought was ‘Oh God, he’s escaped.’  His first words however were “I’ve got no idea.  Hasn’t been here since last week since I threatened him with an enforced ban from all casework for making Becky cry.  Why, you lost him?” 

“Sort of.” 

“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”  Lestrade started to feel the beginning of trepidation.  John was more distracted than usual and with a lost Sherlock on their hands, something was odd.  Well, odder than normal. 

“He, well, he ran off and I’ve got no idea where he is and I’m just, just worried.”  A lost Sherlock and a stuttering John.  Well, it wasn’t like there weren’t going to be other quiet mornings. 

“And him running off is concerning because?”  John finally focused on Greg, instead of darting about the office like Sherlock was hiding in the filing cupboard.  He wished he didn’t have to add an _again_ to that sentence but sometimes it was amusing to watch 6ft of Detective trying to squeeze into a space big enough for only a cat at best.  It was when he noticed the anxiety of the ex-army doctor that Lestrade to feel slightly more serious about the issue.   
“Something’s different isn’t it?  This isn’t just his usual disappearing act?”  John’s face twisted at Greg’s words into something that looked a mixture of guilt and worry. 

“I might’ve upset him slightly.  Unintentionally of course,” he added hurriedly, “but now I can’t find him and he’s left his phone at the flat so I can’t reach him.  You wouldn’t know where he’s gone do you?” 

Ah, a Lover’s spat.  How dramatic.  He frowned at the idea of an upset Sherlock running round London but he honestly couldn’t think of where he would go.  They were close but it was more of a work based relationship.  Emotions were barely mentioned, especially not Sherlock’s. 

“Tried the Morgue yet?”

“Not yet but that’s next.  Thanks for the help anyway,” John nodded at him and turned to leave the office, when Lestrade’s curiosity got the better of him.   
“John?”

“Yes?”  The doctor turned with a hopeful edge to his voice. 

“What’s with the box?”  John grinned slightly as he lifted the box up so Lestrade could get a better look.

“Mrs Hudson’s full-proof Sherlock apology kit.”

“Biscuits?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

“Apparently so.”

***

Molly was in one of the Labs when John arrived at the Morgue, studying something under one of the microscopes.  By the way she jumped as the doors opened; she wasn’t expecting him or anyone for that matter. 

“Oh, hello,” she laughed a little nervously, though it was difficult to say whether this was because she was hiding Sherlock or just because Molly being, well, Molly.   
“Hi.  Listen, I don’t mean to be rude but do you know where Sherlock is?”  His time with Sherlock had taught him to look closely for facial expressions to see when people are trying to conceal something; it had come in infinitely useful in the surgery. 

However, Molly’s squeaked reply of ‘Err no, no, haven’t seen him at all.”  John sighed.  It was obvious in retrospect.  Of course these places were obvious and so unlikely to be hiding spots.

Sherlock hated obvious.

“Erm, John?  Why are you looking for Sherlock?  Only of course you’ll be looking for him; I mean you’re best friends so of course you’ll be looking for him but doesn’t he do this all the time?  I mean he probably doesn’t do it intentionally but-”

“Molly.”

“Sorry.  Just got a bit carried away there.”

“It’s fine.   Now, Sherlock.  He, He’s run off and I _need_ to find him.  Any ideas?”  As Molly was generally the best source for most things Sherlockian, she might be able to help. 

“Yard?”

“Yes,” John answered, almost startled by the one word question.  Normally it took 15 before even the vague meaning became apparent.

“He definitely wasn’t still in the flat?”

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson would ring if he was,” a smidge of doubt crossing his mind.  It was possible.  Very possible. 

“You’re not sure are you?”  Molly looked pityingly. 

“Maybe not 100% but isn’t a bit childish?”  Molly merely raised an eyebrow.  “Okay, I see your point.  Look, if he turns up, just keep him here okay?  Until I can talk to him?”

“Of course.  We’ve got a recent one he was waiting to earmark so I’ll just get him set up and lock him in.”  Hopefully she didn’t notice the way John winced at her flippant treatment of the deceased. 

“Right, okay.  Cheers Molly.”

He was headed towards the door, when Molly’s voice chirped behind him.  “John, don’t forget your box!  What’s with the biscuits anyway?”  She tilted her head at him curiously.  “Are they for Sherlock?  Are you trying to bribe him?  What did you do?”  The questions grew more fretful and Molly was now scowling at him. 

“Long story.  Too many questions, not enough time.  Bye Molly!”

***

It was as he walked out of St Bart’s that the text came through. 

**Have located brother.  End of street, turn left- MH**

John didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or huff in annoyance.  Sherlock had always maintained that Mycroft was interfering and omnipresent, 2 traits that went hand-in-hand and annoyed the hell out of everyone.  However, without his help, it would have probably taken much longer to find his escapee flatmate and time lost was time wasted.

The sleek black car was waiting for him around the corner.  A familiar voice came through the partially open window.  “Get in the car, Doctor Watson.”  Mycroft had only called him John on 3 occasions.  2 of those times had been to save himself from being punched by a highly frustrated ex-army captain. 

“How’d you know I was looking for him?”  John demanded as soon as he was in the car.  The oily smile of Mycroft Holmes greeted him.  “A rather obvious question John.  My brother went missing and I’m inclined to believe that _you_ think you were part of the reason.  Hence this ‘wild goose chase’ around this small section of London.  Next.”

“How’d you find Sherlock?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  “Really John?”

“Okay, stupid question, I get it.  So where did your cameras find him?”

“A small park just outside your usual territory.  It is, however, astonishingly close to my own home so I ask you don’t cause too much of a scene.  There is the limited chance someone will recognise him as my brother and the gossip mill is so difficult to infiltrate these days.  Ah, here we are.” 

The car rolled up to a small push gate, behind which a small playground was situated on the left and a little hill on the right, with a copse of trees just visible, looking like they covered the other side of the hill.  Just like a postcard, John found himself thinking, complete with excited children and parents.  

“Now, you will no doubt be wanting this,” Mycroft said, producing John’s jacket in one hand, “And do try to get him to put this on.  He’ll freeze otherwise and I assure you he is not a good patient,” he added, Sherlock’s coat in the other.  John took them gratefully but hesitantly.  He’d have to get Sherlock to sweep them for bugs later.  Well, if Sherlock would talk to him.  He almost cringed at the thought before remembering who was also in the car.  Although he tried to hide it, something in Mycroft’s expression looked like he hadn’t missed anything.  Know-it-all.  “Rest assured Doctor Watson, Sherlock will be glad to see you.  For some unfathomable reason he is fond of you.  See it stays that way.  Follow the path up the hill.  He’ll be up there somewhere.”  With that the door swung open and John clambered out, coat and box bundled in his arms and with the distinct feeling he’d been given the ‘Big Brother, hurt him and you die’ speech.  Mycroft nodded at him and tipped the ever present umbrella in a sign of dismissal and then the doors were closed, the car rolling away.

John often wondered what the umbrella actually was.  It clearly wasn’t for its original purpose, Mycroft never went outside, if he could help it.  So what was it then?  Poison?  A knife?  A gun?  An impromptu walking stick? 

John amused himself with the possibilities as he walked up the hill, distracting himself from what, or rather _who_ , he was walking towards.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which way you saw it), the great coat in his arms smelled of Sherlock.  This meant it what somewhat of a challenge not to think of sharp eyes and black curls, of an angular frame and a razor mind, of fantastic logic and beautiful wings.

There he was. 

John took a moment to collect himself, looking taking in the lone figure in front of him who was gazing pointedly at the park and rows of houses in front.  Then John straightened up and marched over, soldier instincts kicking in.

***

Sherlock had, of course, noticed John’s arrival.  He wasn’t an idiot and it wasn’t like John was being particularly mysterious about it.  However, what John probably didn’t factor in was that Sherlock really didn’t want to talk to him. 

Well, he did, obviously because it was _John,_ his best friend, colleague, grounding force and wearer of cuddly jumpers but he equally didn’t want to talk because it was _John_ who had just seen his wings and hadn’t moved or spoken or had any reaction _at all_ and he really didn’t want to have the ‘I’m leaving’ conversation just yet because that would just _hurt_ and he was going to kill Mycroft.  He risked a sideways glance.  John was stood with a small smile, holding out his coat in one hand and a box in another.

“Delivery for Mr Holmes?” He joked.  Sherlock smirked.  As if that was going to tempt him into-where those biscuits?  John followed his gaze but misinterpreted it.

“Ah, yeah, not entirely sure why Mrs Hudson gave me these but I guess you might have an idea.”

“Mrs Hudson is under the assumption that I adore her culinary efforts.”  Not that she was wrong but there was no need to confirm that.  John looked relieved, presumably from the fact that Sherlock had talked.  Wait _he’d talked_?  Damn Mrs Hudson.

“I wouldn’t blame you for that.  Now put on your coat before you freeze to death.”  John smiled and handed him his coat and set the box down on the floor.  As he put it on ( _it was slightly cold, he supposed_ ), he thought about how much he loved that smile.  Those lips.  Those eyes.  He should probably enjoy them while they lasted.

“Look, Sherlock.  About what just happened,” _and here we go,_ Sherlock thought, closing off again. 

“I was stupid.”  That was unexpected but not wholly improbable.  Presumably talking about how stupid he was to stay.

“I should’ve said something earlier but it was just a surprise you know?”  _Here it comes_. 

“Your wings are beautiful Sherlock.” 

That.

Was.

Not.

Expected.

“What?”

“Your wings?  I think they’re beautiful.”  Sherlock took in the words.  They weren’t disappointed.  They weren’t angry.  They were accepting.  They were comforting.  They were so quintessentially _John_. 

That was his reasoning, afterwards, for grabbing a rather startled looking John and kissing him.  His mind began cataloguing information, the chapped lips, the warm breath, the taste of tea.  It was then that his mind caught up with _what_ he was doing and _who_ was in front of him and oh god, he’d screwed up again.  Just because John was nice, just because he’d been in love with him for weeks, just because he _could_ and now what was he going to do.  John had not moved which, although it wasn’t moving away, it wasn’t exactly participating either.  He should probably let go now.  John would probably want to start packing soon, away from his crazy, freak with wings roommate how had just kissed him for no apparent reason. 

But, as he made to move backwards, John stepped with him, keeping their lips attached and, apparently deciding to take control of the situation, deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue across Sherlock’s bottom lip.  It was at this moment Sherlock decided that yes, he very much liked John taking control and then made an even more surprising decision to let his mind stop thinking for a while and just _feel._

It was one of the best decisions Sherlock ever made.

***

**Love birds have finally flown.  Awaiting the celebratory news.-MH**

**Thank you, had to get them together somehow.  Now leave them be Mycroft Holmes. - Mrs H**

**Of course Mrs Hudson-MH**

**I’m still expecting that box back, you know-Mrs H**

**Only the best for you Mrs Hudson.  Expect nothing less than perfection.-MH**

**It’s nice to know you still care about him Mycroft-Mrs H**

**Constantly- MH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a theory that Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are secret best friends, what with protecting Sherlock and everything. Hope you enjoyed and tell me if there are any problems, will probably go back and edit this properly later :)
> 
> Also, if you guys are at all interested my tumblr is dinosaursdontplaypianos.tumblr.com :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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